


Impossible To Ignore You

by smoothsailing



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fedal wedding, First Meeting, M/M, None of them play tennis, that’s what AU means
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-26 01:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16209539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoothsailing/pseuds/smoothsailing
Summary: Sascha's horror trip to Roger's wedding doesn't get much better once he gets to the hotel.The gentleman he meets at the reception desk might help change that, though.





	Impossible To Ignore You

**Author's Note:**

> Had never written AU before so I thought I'd give it a shot; let me know what you think!
> 
> Title from Ariana Grande's "goodnight n go".

Sascha is starting to think the universe is conspiring to make him miss Roger’s wedding.

It takes what felt like twenty years to get to the airport because the taxi driver decides that going at least ten miles under the speed limit at all times is a great idea. Sascha generally likes getting to the airport early so he can grab some coffee, maybe buy a new book, but he ends up being so late that he has to run through the terminal after getting a very vigorous and uncomfortable pat down from a TSA agent. He’s sweating and panting by the time he finally makes it to his gate, but it turns out that he had needlessly rushed; his flight is delayed for a good three hours due to the weather, which means that he’s going to miss his connecting flight.

Fucking layovers.

He is cranky as hell by the time that he arranges to get a seat on another flight, and the series of small disasters that follow don’t help his mood. A woman spills coffee all over his white t-shirt while he’s walking to the bookstore, leaving it sticky and uncomfortable. He tries to scrub the stain out in the tiny men’s bathroom, but that seems to make the problem worse. When they start letting people board his plane, he realizes that he has misplaced his boarding pass, and would have missed his flight entirely if he hadn’t found it crumpled in the pocket of his cardigan along with about a dozen receipts from coffee shops.

“I’m so sorry,” Sascha says to the woman trying to un-crumple his boarding pass enough for it to be scanned. Her look of judgement, Sascha knows, will haunt him for the rest of his days.

His trip doesn’t exactly improve from there. He’s stopped complaining about cramped airline seats long ago, but every time he has to stuff himself into a middle seat and pretzel his legs together to maintain some semblance of personal space, he curses his genes. He tries not to side-eye the short woman to his left, reading a magazine and swinging her legs without a care in the world.

After hour two, he starts to get a twinge in his hip and steadfastly ignores it in favour of ordering a second glass of wine. He resigns himself to a long flight and numb legs, opens his iPad awkwardly on his lap and puts headphones on to block out a sobbing baby from near the back of the plane.

He looks forward to getting to the hotel Roger’s mother recommended. The website had shown small but airy rooms with soft-looking beds he can’t wait to faceplant into. It’s all he thinks about throughout the flight, and the layover, and the next flight. He almost cries in relief when he finally manages to hail a cab and tell the driver the address, because soon- soon! - he’ll be able to collapse into a bed and forget about this entire awful day.

 

\--

 

Alas, the sweet relief of the cool side of a pillow falls just out of reach.

“Mr. _Zuhvrev_ ,” the woman behind the desk sadly mangles. “I am so, so sorry, sir.”

“Why?” Sascha asks, not bothering to correct her pronunciation. “Look, it doesn’t matter if something is wrong with the room. I’ll sleep anywhere. I’m just exhausted, and I’d really like to go up to my room.”

“Oh dear,” she frets, shuffling the papers on her desk nervously. “Well, um, you see… About that. We… well. We may have cancelled your reservation.”

“What?” Sascha says. He must look as defeated as he feels, because the woman’s face crumples.

“I’m so sorry!” she exclaims. “This almost never happens. Your name sounds a lot like another gentleman who is staying here this weekend, and when you called we must have just… assumed you had already booked it. I’m so sorry!”

He stares blankly at her for the few seconds it takes him to understand what she’s saying. “You mean my brother, _Mischa_ Zverev?” The woman is staring at Sascha in horror, mouth agape.

“So… I don’t have a place to sleep?” he asks mournfully.

He’s sitting on a chair, drinking coffee from a small plastic cup while the reception lady looks through their bookings to see if maybe, just maybe, they’ve had a last second cancellation. He flips through his contacts to see if anyone else might be in town for the wedding. He can’t share with Roger - he’s pretty sure Rafael, his husband-to-be, would kill him - and everyone else that he knows is already sharing with a significant other.

Sascha does not want to share a room with Mischa and his wife. He really, really doesn’t. Or Dominic. He knows he’s staying with his girlfriend Kiki, and Sascha doesn’t really like her, to be honest. Plus, Dominic will likely critique Sascha’s suit choice. And underwear choice... And all of his life choices.

Several couples come and go, happily jangling their keys as they wind up the old wooden staircase next to the reception desk. He looks at the dregs of his coffee and tries to see his future.  _Better luck next time_ , or  _please try again_.

He’s not sure if he’s more jealous of the fact that they have rooms to go to or that they had someone to bring to the wedding. Sascha is dateless and _roomless_. His life is officially the worst.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says, looking truly regretful. “We really don’t have a room for you. There’s another hotel about forty-five minutes away from here. I can call them to see if they have a room and get you a cab, if you’d like.”

“Of course,” Sascha says, defeated. “Thank you.”

The door rattles open, the bell above chiming with a newcomer. Sascha crushes the empty tiny cup in his hand as he starts to get to his feet, looking around for somewhere to throw it away.

“The reservation’s under Dimitrov,” the man leaning against the desk is saying. Sascha slowly turns to look at him.

He wonders if this Dimitrov guy will accept the twenty-dollar bill and handful of slightly melted Hershey Kisses that Sascha has hidden in his coat pocket in exchange for his room.

“R-right, of course,” the woman stammers as she takes the proffered credit card from the man. The poor woman still feels bad for Sascha.

Sascha keeps squinting at them as he crosses the room to throw away the cup, and maybe the rest of his coffee shop receipts. He’ll keep the Hershey Kisses.

“Dimitrov, right?” He says without any input from his brain as he walks back to the desk. The guy turns to look at him and Sascha has to suck in a breath, tells himself it’s allergies, because this man is _gorgeous_. He has a lazy grin on his face, hips cocked out with his forearms resting on the desk.

“Yep,” he says. “Grigor.” He holds his hand out to shake. The woman behind the desk looks like she’s afraid Sascha is going to - what - _kill_ Grigor for the room? Please. Sascha almost killed himself the other day breaking for a squirrel in the middle of the road. He might have, as Mischa calls it, “resting murder face,” but he’s harmless. He would never hurt someone.

Especially someone as attractive as this.

“Staying here?” Grigor asks, absently licking his bottom lip. Sascha is stunned into nodding _yes_ , and then quickly shaking his head _no_.

“There was a mix-up with my room, actually,” Sascha answers ruefully. “I’m waiting for a taxi to take me to a hotel.”

“What?” Grigor asks, looking alarmed. “Seriously?”

“My brother’s arriving later; he’s also staying here,” Sascha explains. “There was some confusion due to us having the same last name, so they just assumed the same reservation was there twice, and now it’s too late for me to get another room.”

“Ah, dude, I’m so sorry,” Grigor says, sounding genuinely contrite. “You’ve got to stay here, though, all the fun wedding stuff is happening here.” He pauses for a moment, squinting at Sascha. “You… _are_ here for the Federer-Nadal wedding, right?”

“Yeah,” Sascha says. “Roger’s an old family friend.”

“He’s great,” Grigor says, a little dreamily. “but I don’t know how he managed to convince Rafa to marry him, the lucky bastard.”

Sascha laughs. “I’ve only met Rafa twice, but he’s a good guy. They’re good together.”

“They are,” Grigor agrees. He stares at Sascha curiously, his lips quirked in a small smile. Sascha has only known him for about three minutes but he can already tell that this is the kind of guy who is always smiling, the kind of guy who brings smiles out in others. It normally takes Sascha a long time to warm up to new people, but he likes Grigor automatically and easily, like they’ve known each other for years.

It should freak Sascha out, but it just feels exhilarating.

“Hey,” Grigor says, looking like he’s come to some sort of decision. “Look, you can totally say no because this is probably really weird, but… do you want to share the room with me? We can split the price and get a hide-a-bed brought in. That way you don’t need to get a hotel room somewhere out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Seriously?” Sascha asks, raising his eyebrows. “You’re okay with that?”

“Totally!” Grigor says. “It’ll be like a slumber party! Hey, ma'am-- can we get a hide-a-bed sent up to my room? We’re just gonna share.”

“We ran out of hide-a-beds two days ago, sir,” the woman says, sounding miserable. “I’m so sorry. There are three weddings and -”

“No need to worry, ma’am,” Grigor says, slinging an arm around Sascha’s tense shoulders. Sascha finds that he is horribly, disgustingly charmed.

Sascha’s worrying increases at least twofold.

“You don’t mind sharing, do you?” Grigor asks. “It’s a big bed, you’ll barely notice I’m there.”

_Not fucking likely_ , Sascha thinks in despair. Sascha resigns himself to a sleepless weekend, where he nervously tries not to move too much on the bed in a probably useless attempt not to wake Grigor. Grigor is warm and solid next to him, with the kind of broad shoulders that Sascha has always been attracted to, and Sascha is just. Not prepared for this. He is not prepared for this at all.

“Yeah,” Sascha lies, trying not to notice how strong the arm thrown over his shoulders is. “This is totally fine.”

 --

 

So they end up in bed that first night, starchy sheets and a painting of a kitten in a basket of roses judging them from across the room. The room is just as comfortable as Sascha had thought it would be, but he never could have imagined sharing it with a handsome, grinning stranger.

“Hey, you can shower first if you want,” Grigor says. “You smell like airplane and terrible coffee, man, it’s pretty bad.”

“How gracious of you,” Sascha says sarcastically, pulling out his toiletry bag and a change of clothes. Grigor shrugs innocently and then jumps on the bed, bouncing slightly. It makes a horrible creaking noise and Grigor cackles.

“Oh man, I hope the bed in the honeymoon suite isn’t this loud,” he laughs. “Otherwise we might need to buy earplugs before the wedding night.”

It's weird sharing a bed with a stranger, but Grigor is surprisingly comfortable to be around.

 

Sascha turns on his side, away from Grigor and the judgemental kittens, feeling the bed heave and groan as he resettles himself. He sighs and tries to ignore the small movements jostling him from the other side of the bed. There’s a small snicker, quickly muffled, and then the bed is shaking with laughter, his shoulder jarring into Grigor’s as he rolls onto his back to stare at him.

“What?” Sascha asks, fear that Grigor will kick him out in the middle of the night despite the giggles rocking them both.

Grigor breathes out slowly in an attempt _t_ o calm himself. “This is the fastest I’ve gotten a guy in bed.” The giggles start up again. Sascha can see the faint outline of Grigor putting his hands over his face in the dark of the room.

Sascha sighs loudly, rolling again to face Grigor this time. “Same, though. Thanks again.” There’s enough light filtering in from the large window to see the way Grigor drags his palms over his face, his neck, his chest. Sascha’s eyes track the motion of Grigor’s hand against his will.

“No problem,” Grigor says, impishly. His eyes skip over Sascha’s face, the sliver of neck and shoulder not covered by the blankets. “You’re not the ugliest person I’ve shared a bed with.”

“Flattering,” Sascha says, scowling to cover the fact that he genuinely is flattered. He’s about to say something else when he yawns. Grigor is snickering again when Sascha finishes.

“Go to bed, sleepy head,” he teases, kicking Sascha’s shin gently. “We’ve got a wedding to go to in the morning.”

Sascha murmurs a quiet goodnight. He doesn't expect to sleep much, but he’s out between one breath and the next, the image of Grigor’s smile imprinted on his eyelids.

 

\--

 

He blinks his eyes open to a picturesque view - birds chirping through the window, gauzy curtains blowing in a soft wind, and a half-naked man standing at the foot of the bed stretching, the muscles in his back bunching and smoothing.

Right.  _Right_.

He groans and shoves his head under his pillow. He loves Roger, he does. He’s happy he’s met the love of his life, happy he gets to share in the joy of their wedding, but it seems unfair that he’s here a couple months off of a bad breakup with a beautiful man yawning and stretching and telling him to get his ass in gear.

“Don’t want to miss pancakes! The online review said the pancakes were to die for.”

“I do love pancakes,” Sascha says stupidly. Grigor beams at him and then starts to tug a shirt on. Sascha has to bite his lip to keep from gasping out “No!” as Grigor’s shoulders and abs disappear from view.

They eat quickly, Grigor smiling and tangling their fingers over the sticky ceramic handle of the syrup.

Sascha averts his eyes and shoves forkfuls of fluffy pancake into his mouth.

 

\--

The wedding is the early afternoon, so they lounge around the dining room drinking coffee and chatting with the other guests. Dominic comes over for a while to talk about the fancy suit he’s had made for the wedding and to lecture Sascha about getting his clothes tailored properly.

“You’re beyond help,” Dominic tells Sascha. “I remember what you wore to Mischa’s wedding. I thought my eyes would never recover.”

“I was his best man!” Sascha yelps. “I wore what Mischa told me to!” Dominic just shakes his head sadly and walks away from their table.

“We should probably go up and start getting ready,” Sascha says as he turns to Grigor. Grigor’s giggling – of course he is – and Sascha can’t help but roll his eyes at him.

They head up to the room and start getting dressed in their suits in companionable silence. It’s an outdoor wedding, so their outfits are a little more casual; Sascha is wearing a nice grey suit that Mischa had helped him pick out, but Grigor comes out of the bathroom wearing a white button-down, suspenders, and dress pants that fit… very, very well. Sascha fumbles with his tie when he sees Grigor, fingers suddenly nerveless.

“Ah, dude, let me get that for you,” Grigor says with a wide smile, and then Sascha has to survive having Grigor standing close enough to kiss as he knots Sascha’s tie with practiced efficiency.

“I can’t believe you’re wearing suspenders,” Sascha says, tightening his own reasonable belt around his waist.

“Whatever, dude. I have it on good authority that suspenders are hot,” Grigor says.

“Whose authority? Your grandfather’s?” Sascha snarks, but secretly he’s staring at Grigor’s shoulders and arms-- he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, showing off strong forearms. Sascha has the insane urge to bite them. 

The bathroom is really only made for one, so there’s a bit of bickering over who gets to use it first-- Sascha needs to shave, and Grigor is adamant about needing to do his hair. They ultimately compromise and let Grigor stand right in front of the sink with Sascha a little behind him. He can see over the top of Grigor’s shoulder to make sure his scruff looks decent in the mirror. They make eye contact in the mirror and Grigor winks. It makes Sascha flush, embarrassed and pleased.

 

\--

The wedding is beautiful. Sascha’s eyes get a little teary. Mischa would probably make fun of him for getting so emotional, but when he glances over, Grigor is rubbing at his eyes, too.

It’s a good day.

 

\--

The reception is as relaxed as the wedding was. It’s outdoors, with twinkly fairy lights keeping things bright even with the darkening sky. There are tables scattered all around the makeshift dance floor, and Sascha knows that Roger wanted things to be as laid back as possible, so there aren’t any assigned seats. Neither Sascha nor Grigor brought a date so it makes sense to sit together. They end up sitting at what seems like a singles table, but Sascha realizes pretty quickly that people think they’re together, asking them couple questions, like how they met. Sascha feels too awkward to correct them, even when one of the girls gives him a wistful look. He feels less bad when a groomsman sweeps her away to dance.

They eat dinner and then Roger and Rafa cut the cake. Rafa giggles when Roger smashes some onto his face and then leans over to lick it off.

“Their foreplay is weird,” Grigor says, handing Sascha a plate of cake. It’s a beautiful cake, with thick buttercream frosting and sugar-spun flowers, and Sascha moans when he takes the first bite.

“This is _so good_ ,” he slurs, licking the frosting off his lips. Grigor looks a little stunned, but whatever - this is really damn good cake. Sascha is not ashamed.

Sascha sighs unhappily when he finishes his slice of cake, staring wistfully over where people are lined up to get another slice. He startles when Grigor slides his plate over to him.

“I don’t like buttercream much,” Grigor says. “So you can finish my piece, if you want.” Sascha would chastise him - because, well, who doesn’t like buttercream? - but he’s too busy bringing another bite to his mouth as he puts his empty plate in front of Grigor.

Grigor makes a stilted motion with one hand toward Sascha before biting his lip and lowering his hand. “You’ve got some, uh.” And then the fingers of that hand are on his chin, gentle, a thumb swiping over the corner of his mouth. “Frosting,” Grigor says, low. Sascha flushes and unconsciously licks over the same spot.

Sascha feels sweat run down his spine, sticking to the back of his shirt. Grigor’s hair doesn’t seem to be faring much better, pushed away from his forehead in limp curls.

He can’t help but press in closer, thighs brushing under the table. Grigor doesn’t pull away.

“I need to show people my moves,” Grigor says, shimmying a little. He sticks his thumbs under the straps of his suspenders, plucking once, and winking at Sascha  _again_.

“I doubt you have moves,” Sascha grumbles, ducking his head so Grigor can't see how flustered he actually is. He knows he’s falling into a trap but decides to enjoy the fall.

“Come dance with me and I’ll prove it to you,” Grigor challenges, jumping up from his chair. Sascha shakes his head and slouches further in his seat, ducking his head to try and hide his smile. Grigor reaches down, and, for a moment, Sascha thinks he’s going to grab his hand and drag him to the dance floor. But instead he fingers the edge of Sascha’s tie for a long moment before tugging at it gently. “Come dance with me,” he says again, voice soft.

“Okay,” Sascha says. His voice is hoarse. Grigor walks backwards to the dance floor, leading Sascha by his tie.

Sascha rarely dances, is usually too shy. His parents used to make him dance at parties when he was younger because Mischa always did, and he had always hated it - felt like everyone was watching him. Everyone here is drunk – well, except Grigor because he _“doesn’t drink”_ \- giddily spinning around the dance floor like tipsy pinwheels, so Sascha allows Grigor to lead him out into the crush of people. His eyes are sparkling, hips moving along with the beat, and Sascha feels hypnotized.

He lets Grigor hold his hips in his big hands, guide him where he wants. Grigor’s a bit smaller than him, but Sascha feels entirely surrounded. Dancing’s easy when he’s drunk and loose, when he’s got Grigor’s hands sliding from his hips to dangerously, maddeningly close to his ass.

“See,” Grigor breathes in Sascha’s ear. “I’ve got moves.”

They’re standing so close together that Grigor can probably feel him shiver. Sascha tries to cover it up, but Grigor looks at him, faux-concerned.

“What’s wrong, Sascha?” he asks, like he doesn’t know exactly what the fuck is wrong. “You cold?”

“Are you gonna let me wear your jacket if I say yes?” Sascha asks sardonically.

“Hm,” Grigor hums thoughtfully. “I can probably think of a better way to warm you up.” And then he’s dragging Sascha closer, scraping his teeth against the underside of Sascha’s jaw, and-- holy shit.

“Grigor,” Sascha says- whimpers, maybe, though he’d never admit it. Grigor is staring at him steadily, and Sascha is ninety percent certain that Grigor’s arms around him are the only thing holding him steady.

“You wanna get out of here?” Grigor asks, and Sascha nods, because when it comes to Grigor, the answer to that question is always going to be yes.

 

\--

 

On only slightly wobbly legs, they walk back to the hotel in companionable silence. Sascha thinks if he were to get married, this is a pretty great place. There’s a cool summer breeze and he tilts his face into it.

They still have the single room tonight. Sascha doesn’t think he’s reading this wrong, but doesn’t know how to proceed with words instead of action. He could push Grigor up against the rough brick wall of one of the shops lining the road, the hum and murmur of the rest of the reception party disbanding behind them. It’s a beautiful night, and Grigor looks so good beside him. He has his jacket slung over his shoulder, whistling softly, and Sascha takes a moment to admire the corded muscle of his forearms, the glimpse of the pale, vulnerable underside of his wrist.

One of the suspenders are hanging off of Grigor’s shoulder and Sascha uses it to reel him in, bring him close so he can brush his mouth against the soft skin Grigor’s cheek. “We don’t have to - “

“I want to,” Grigor says, tilting his head back to look at Sascha properly. “I want to.” His breath is sugary sweet on Sascha’s face.

There’s a second where he isn’t sure if they’re going to kiss, or if they’re going to go up to the room first, or - and then he has armfuls of Grigor, sun warm and sweat damp at the base of his spine where he presses his palm.

“I want to,” Grigor says against his mouth. Their lips brush as Grigor speaks, and it’s the most maddening kind of tease. It seems like Sascha waits twenty years between one breath and the next, but it’s worth it when Grigor finally-- fucking finally- kisses him for real. Sascha gasps against Grigor’s mouth and then threads his fingers through his hair, using his grip to tilt Grigor’s head to a better angle. Sascha can’t help but bite down a little on Grigor’s lower lip, just to tease, but he doesn’t expect the way that Grigor shudders against him, moans like he can’t stop himself.

He doesn’t accept it, but he very much appreciates it.

“Room,” Grigor gasps, untangling himself from Sascha’s hold so he can start dragging him towards the bed and breakfast. “I need to get you naked immediately.”

“Please,” Sascha says, and watches with delighted fascination as Grigor shudders again.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” Grigor says, but he doesn’t sound upset about it. He stops walking for a moment to look Sascha up and down, eyes as hot on Sascha’s body as his touch. “But damn, what a way to go.”

 

\--

They push the bedclothes to the floor. It’s too hot, Grigor’s body rolling against his while they’re still standing, suit pants half off his ass where Sascha has a desperate palm gripping above the waistband. “Stupid,” he says into Grigor’s mouth, ”fucking. Suspenders.”

“You’re jealous, don’t lie.”

He snaps the strap he’s holding to hear the satisfying yelp Grigor makes, his bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout.

“Wanted to touch you last night, lying so close to me,” Sascha hears himself say.  

Grigor groans and pushes himself up on his toes, hands resting on Sascha’s shoulders. The suspenders hang off of Grigor’s hips and Sascha grips them in his hands so he can drag Grigor closer.

“Can I blow you?” Sascha asks. Grigor gapes at him, and then grabs his face in his hands, squishing his cheeks.

“How are you even real?” Grigor asks fervently. “Goddamn, it’s like someone made you in a lab or something.” He grasps at Sascha’s thighs, digging his fingers in. “See? What  _is_ this?”

“Is that a yes?” Sascha asks, amused. Grigor nods his head so emphatically that he looks like a bobblehead.

“Yes, oh my God, yes.”

It’s been a good while since Sascha has had a dick in his mouth but it’s probably like riding a bicycle, he reasons as he gets to his knees. Grigor is staring down at him with huge eyes, like he still isn’t quite sure that Sascha is real. He seems to startle to attention when Sascha starts unbuttoning his pants, reaching down to help Sascha with shaking fingers.

_Just like a bicycle_ , he thinks, as he licks over the wet head of Grigor’s cock. Between them, they manage to get Grigor’s pants down to mid-thigh, boxers tucked under his balls. He lets his eyes fall closed as he lifts a hand from his thigh to grip the base. His other hand pets uncertainly at Grigor’s hip, stroking the soft skin stretched over bone.

“Fuck,” Grigor hisses. One of his hands grips Sascha’s shoulder, and the other twists into his hair. “Fuck, Sascha, your  _mouth_.”

He lets the heavy tip push at his tongue, drag and catch over his lips.

“Please, c’mon,” Grigor whines and, from their day - God, had it just been a day and a half? - he should have known Grigor would talk. “You look so good,” Grigor breathes out as his hand cups around Sascha’s jaw, pushing into his cheek.

He thumbs at the corner of his mouth, pressing slick against his swollen lips. Sascha works his hand, trying to drop his jaw and take more. His mouth feels used already, hot and plush. Grigor keeps pushing his hips forward before freezing, murmuring “ _sorry, sorry_ ” and petting at Sascha’s hair until he has to catch himself again.

After the third time it happens, Sascha has to pull back to laugh. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, grinning. “ _No, please, don’t stop. I’m sorry_ ,” Grigor pleads.

“You should sit on the bed.” Sascha thinks he might have more leverage with an arm across Grigor’s hips. Grigor scrambles backwards to the bed, tripping over the pants that are still tangled around his legs. He collapses onto the comforter, half-laughing and half-groaning. Sascha shuffles forward and settles between Grigor’s ridiculous thighs, holding down his hips with one arm.

“Are you going to be good?” Sascha teases, and Grigor makes an inarticulate noise in response.

“Yes, yes, anything. I’ll blow you after, I’ll do anything.” Sascha makes a show of considering his options, slowly fisting Grigor’s cock. He rubs the head over his lips, sticky-wet.

“I think I’m good,” he says and moves his hand from Grigor’s dick to undo his own fly. “Just hold still.” He certainly hasn’t been sucking dick enough to be confident deep throating, and is wary of taking his hand away at all, but he thinks if he keeps bobbing up and down on Grigor’s dick and pressing his tongue under the head, Grigor won’t last much longer.

He forgets he has a hand on his own dick for a second, cupping himself through his boxer briefs. He thumbs over the damp patch, circling the head. Fuck, he’s not going to last long either with Grigor making these whimpering noises above him on the bed, thighs shivering on either side of him. He moans a little when Grigor pulls at his hair tighter, the noise creating a vibration in his throat that has Grigor gasping. He sticks to sucking lightly around the leaking tip, knowing it’s not enough, but can’t concentrate when he gets his hand around his dick  _finally_. 

“God,” he pulls off to gasp, and has to push his face into the scratchy fabric stretched over Grigor’s thigh. He wraps his other hand around Grigor’s spit slick cock, jerking him in the same rhythm that’s making him whine and buck into his own fist.

“Sascha,” Grigor whispers, and the sound of his wrecked voice is what sends Sascha over the edge, coming into his own hand while he whimpers with his face pressed against Grigor’s thigh.

He has to breathe through it, shudders wracking his body. He notices his hand is still on Grigor’s dick when Grigor wraps his fingers around Sascha’s, a firm grip that he can fuck up into. “You look so fucking good,” he moans.

Sascha grins, a watery but pleased thing, and moves to press his lips where their hands circle tight around the head. Grigor groans, low and wounded. “Fuck, fuck, Sascha,” he barks out, cock pulsing before Sascha has a chance to open his mouth.

“ _Fuuuuck_ ” Grigor says when he looks down at Sascha, come over his mouth and chin, dripping onto his chest. “Oh my God, you look…fuck.” Not very creative of him.

“Yeah,” Sascha agrees, dropping his forehead to Grigor’s thigh. Gentle fingers card through his hair and it feels good, even sweet in a way he didn’t expect but should have, maybe. Grigor gently herds Sascha onto the bed and wanders into the bathroom to grab a wet washcloth to wipe him clean. Sascha is grateful, because he genuinely doesn’t think he’d be able to walk right now - he feels loose and fucked-out, and he never wants to get up from his spot on the bed.

“I live here now, this bed is my home,” he says, stretching out on the comforter. Grigor’s eyes trace over the curve of Sascha’s shoulders and the cut of his abs. He maybe stretches a little more than he needs to, showing off a little for his very appreciative audience.

 

“You’re unreal,” Grigor says admiringly, collapsing next to him on the bed. Sascha kicks his shoes off and pushes his pants down his legs. He should hang them up, shouldn’t let them wrinkle but he’d much rather lay here and press kisses to Grigor’s shoulder than worry about that.

“D’you wanna watch TV?” Sascha asks quietly. He doesn’t want to fall asleep yet, wants to stay awake as long to prolong the moment. “We get lots of channels here, and I think we might catch some of the U.S. Open.”

“Oh Jesus, you like tennis too?” Grigor asks despairingly. “Do you have any flaws?”

“No,” Sascha says smugly. “Now find the remote, I want to see Novak kick ass.”

“Wait,” Grigor says, holding up his hand. “You’re a Djokovic fan?”

“It’s a family thing,” Sascha explains. “My parents forced me to watch him when I was young but then I fell in love with his game.”

“So you do have a flaw,” Grigor says, mournfully. “I should apologize in advance for Andy absolutely destroying him, but I’m actually not sorry, so.”

Sascha snorts and dedicates himself to finding the remote among the destroyed sheets and blankets.

 

\--

 

Sascha is pressed along Grigor’s side, the sharp curve of a hip against his thigh. Every inch where their skin meets is overheated, slick with sweat and perfect. He lets his arm casually drape over Grigor’s bare chest. He tries for casual, anyway. Grigor pinches the skin on the back of his hand, a bright spot of pain before there are fingers trailing down his arm, gooseflesh making him shiver.

“You’re pretty great,” he hears whispered, low under the slow whir of their ceiling fan. “You should call me sometime.”

“You can count on it,” Sascha says and plants a soft kiss on Grigor’s lips.

 


End file.
